


On The Hill

by MadasaMoriarty



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: A Lot Of People Are Actually Dead, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blind!Doctor, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, I Don't Even Know, I Hope This Is All In Here, The Doctor Is Grumpy, This Is Not Quite An AU?, i don't know where i'm going with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadasaMoriarty/pseuds/MadasaMoriarty
Summary: There is a man on a hill that nobody bothers with. Clara does.





	1. Chapter 1

There once was a man who lived in a little blue house on a hill. Not much was known about him. There were those that thought he was old and short with curly hair and a Scottish brogue. Others said he was tall and hard with eyes so blue they could hook into your soul and yank it out of you. He was boyish and foppish, ancient and snowy headed, impossibly skinny, believably fat… the only thing anyone seemed to agree to, was that he was a murderer. Or something equally horrible. 

Why else would he spend his days hidden inside his house? Why else could no one in the whole town claim to have seen him do so much as stick his head out the door? The only reason anyone would be so standoffish is if they were hiding something. And the only reason the people of Leadworth could think would be bad enough to hide that deeply, was murder. Or something else you’d read about in the gorey parts of the paper. 

Clara wasn’t so sure. Clara was  _ new  _ to Leadworth. She had moved there very recently, after being hired on to take care of a pair of kids. Clara was  _ new  _ to Leadworth, and also a nanny. And being  _ new  _ apparently meant being treated like a small child and a stranger, so people were either condescendingly friendly, or they whispered about her quite literally behind her back. Or both. Clara was  _ new, _ but she was not so  _ new  _ that she didn’t know all of Leadworth’s rumors and horror stories. Like the man on the hill. 

And what Clara couldn’t fathom, was why no one had ever bothered to climb the hill, and check? If they were afraid they could take friends. Or go in the daytime. Or go in the daytime,  _ with  _ friends- there was no way the man could murder all of them. And then they would know. Because the thing was...the curiosity was killing Clara. Her dad always said she had more curiosity than sense. Her mum had said that was something to be proud of, so long as it didn’t get you killed. Clara was trying very hard not to get killed. But she  _ needed  _ to know. 

“So go than.” Angie griped, as Clara complained about it again. 

“We’ll go with you.” Artie offered with a dimpled smile and only a moment of hesitation. 

“Will not.” His sister disagreed. 

Clara smiled at both of them with a pinch between her brow and started clearing the breakfast dishes. 

 

Clara couldn’t help looking. The Coleman Hill School for the Gifted offered a great view of that small blue house and it’s carefully drawn curtains. So every morning when she dropped the kids off and every afternoon when she picked them up, she craned her neck to try and see inside. 

“You shouldn’t bother with that place.” Mr. Pink told her everyday as he walked Artie over. Clara smiled and flirted to try and distract him from the way her head was turned. But it felt like she’d twist her neck off looking. 

 

“We’re going for a walk.” Clara decided one good brisk Saturday morning. 

“A what?” Angie complained. 

“Can I ride my bike?” Artie asked excitedly. Clara smiled grandly. And vetoed the bike. 

 

“You’re loony!” Angie hissed as Clara pushed open the wrought iron gate. Artie said nothing, just curled into his sister’s side. 

“Wait here.” Clara ordered. 

“And what are we supposed to do if you get yourself killed?” Angie demanded, Artie whimpered. Clara kept on smiling. 

 

Clara was not smiling. She’d knocked on the door. Actually, properly knocked. With sound. And now she was scared. She was  _ terrified. _ She wanted to run back down the hill and take Angie and Artie home and curl up in her bed and forget this whole thing. She knocked again. Louder. There was a muffled crash and Clara nearly bit her cheek open to stay still. Nothing moved. Not even the air as Clara forgot to breathe. It was achingly quiet. And then…

The door creaked open and a hawkish face poked out. 

“Who are you? What do you want?” 

“Uh- hi. Hi.” Clara watched as the man slowly angled his face toward hers, as if he wasn’t quite sure someone could be that short. “Hi.” She said it again, just to be sure.

“What do you want?” The man demanded again, but his hard Scottish bark had softened. 

“I’m Clara.” She offered her hand, than curled it back into her chest as the man made no move to take it. “I’m Clara.” The man’s eyebrows moved into attack formation. “I’m new!” She added hastily. “I’m new and I just thought-” 

“You’re one of  _ those _ , aren’t you?” The man interrupted, voice flat and expression dark. 

“One of what?” Clara asked, bristling. 

“One of those, stupidly,  _ brave  _ pudding brains.” ‘Brave’ was said with venomous derision. ‘Pudding brains’ is offensively conversational. “Who comes up here even though they think I’m going to eat them.” He smiled suddenly, wolfishly. Clara took a half step back and regretted it. 

“Are you?” She didn’t let herself whisper it, didn’t let her voice shake. 

“No.” The man snapped. “I don’t want to deal with the indigestion.  _ Stupid  _ doesn’t agree with me.” He scowled at her. “Now, go away. Run back to your little friends and tell them all how stupid and  _ brave  _ you are. Go on.” He leaned into her space, weathered face coming impossibly close. “ _ Run. _ ” 

She did. Her heart beating fast enough to shake her out of her skin. She heard the man’s voice as her feet left the porch. 

“Leave me alone.” 

And then the door closed. 

 

Clara was knocking again. Same door. A sort of  _ ratatattat.  _ It seemed to be taking longer. Or maybe it wasn’t and it just seemed that way because she was alone now. She’d left Artie and Angie at home. To come up here. To this sort of creepy blue house. Which may or may not house a murderer. Because she felt bad for Saturday. And she’d made him muffins. Banana muffins. What if he didn’t even like banana? She jumped as the door swung open and that same sharp face emerged. 

“Who’s there?” 

“It’s me.” Her voice squeaked. His eyes did that same slow slide. 

“Me who?” His voice seemed to drop several octaves and Clara shivered. Out of fear. Yeah, fear. 

“Me, Clara. We...met...the other day.” He frowned and she thrust the muffins at him. “I made these. For you. I made these for you.” 

His head dipped but he didn’t seem to bother looking at them. He took a short sniff instead. 

“Why?” 

“Because.” She could feel herself blushing and he was just looking at her blankly, not even really focused on her face. “Because that is what you do when you meet your neighbors, you bring food.” She nodded decisively. 

“Are we neighbors?” the idea seemed to confuse him. 

“Yes.” They weren’t. Clara lived blocks away. He was scowling again. Looking around his porch like it confused him. Clara watched in amazement as his hard edges seemed to fracture, all his brusque confidence fading as he folded into himself. 

“What now?” His voice was much softer and he had dropped his gaze to her toes. Clara felt some of her own confidence returning as his faded. 

“Now you invite me in for tea and we have a muffin.” 

He seemed to think it over, not raising his eyes and biting the meat of his thumb. Clara waited and eventually he shuffled back, holding the door awkwardly open. 

“Would you like to come in than?” 

“Yes, I would.” She marched forward and this time when the door closed, she was on the other side. 

 

“Mind your step. And don’t touch anything.” He was back to snapping, more reassured now that he was in his own space. Clara followed him carefully, looking around at everything. It was bigger on the inside. Bigger than she would have thought anyway. The walls were covered in pictures, and the rooms seemed like a contradiction. Some were so immaculately clean it was as if no one lived in them. And some were strewn all over with knick knacks and pillows and boxes, like the person who lived in them wasn’t quite done moving in. There was also a layer of dust over everything. The man too was an enigma, at one moment moving with easy confidence and in the next shuffling forward with kitten steps. She watched him stop, halfway past a doorway, he stood for a moment with his head tipped to the side than turned sharply and waltzed in like he’d never hesitated, leaving Clara to follow.

He stopped again just as abruptly and Clara nearly ran into him as he spun to face her. His eyebrows were drawn down in fearsome form, glaring even though he couldn’t seem to look at her directly. 

“I don’t need your pity.” He snarled it and Clara blinked. 

“I never said you did.” He jerked, seeming surprised by how close she was.

“Well, good. Because I don’t.” He glared towards her for a moment longer, than moved towards the cupboards. “I can get along just fine without  _ pity  _ thank you very much.” 

“Okay.” Clara agreed, taking a moment to study the kitchen. It was very much like the rest of the house. Bigger than she would have thought. And homeyer. With parts of it, the table and sink, overtaken by clutter and other parts, the stove and counters, so clean she could almost see her face. 

“And if this is some sort of sympathy- sympathetic... _ rot. _ You can take it and your guilt muffins and  _ sod off.  _ And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” He said all this while fumbling through his cupboards, each word seeming to make him tenser and angrier. 

“O-kay.” She studied him for a moment, but she couldn’t see much beyond his tight shoulders and the back of his silver curls. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m not pitying you.” Her mind flickered back to those sad words as she fled the porch and she grimaced a little. “Not...really. Think of it more as an apology, yeah?” 

“For what? You can’t help if you’re a pudding brain. Most people are.” 

“Noo.” Clara grit her teeth. “I’m apologizing for making assumptions.”

“Ah, well, you know what they say about that.” 

Clara found it very strange that a voice so sinfully dark could be that annoying. 

“I let what other people said affect my opinion of you without gettin’ to know you first, so I’m sorry.” She waited but he didn’t turn around. “I’d like to start over. If that’s alright.” He flicked his head towards her, long fingers playing over the tops of the tea tins he’d lined down the counter. Clara heaved a huge sigh and squared her shoulders. “Hello, my name is Clara Oswald, I moved here last year and I am still gettin’ to know everybody. I hope we can be friends.” She felt silly for adding that last bit. It’s something she’d done during school and it had always garnered a laugh from somebody. But she thought it probably bore saying. 

“Fr-ien-ds…” He stretched the word out like he was confused by it, sending her a look that didn’t quite land. His expression, when she saw it, was sad. “Okay.” He didn’t quite face her, but he moved so that she could see the shadow of his face. “Hello Clara Oswald, I’m the Doctor.” His mouth quirked up for a moment. “Let’s be friends.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor get further acquainted.

He makes them tea. Clara stands with her heart beating a touch too fast and tries to think of something to say while he fiddles with his tins, but there isn’t anything. She can feel his surrender on her skin like mist. He has unlocked something for her. Some deep hidden thing. Given her something fragile and she knows that the lightest touch will shatter it. But she can’t very well stand in his kitchen saying nothing forever. That’s hardly friendship is it? She unsticks her tongue and says, probably louder than she normally would:

“Is this how you normally make tea?” 

He sniffs and fiddles and flicks his head at her. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Takes a while, doesn’t it?” There’s a laugh in her voice she’s not sure she’s comfortable with but he shows his teeth in something that isn’t a grimace and she relaxes a bit. 

“Yes. I suppose it probably does.” He takes a quick sniff from a bright red tin and frowns. “I hadn’t noticed.” He sniffs again, harder and gives the tin a shake. Clara doesn’t hear anything. “That’s empty isn’t it?” He brandishes the tin around, not quite thrusting it at her but sort of offering it a bit to her left. She inches up and peers inside. 

“Yep.” She agrees. “Empty.” 

“Well that’s rubbish. What do I want an empty tin for?” He’s frowning at her like this was somehow her idea and for some reason Clara can feel her mouth curling up in response. 

“I don’t know. Putting bits in?” She offers. He scoffs and chucks the tin toward his table. It bounces off a leg and skitters into a wall. The Doctor grimaces and looks almost sheepish. 

“I’m going to trip over that later…” He turns back to the counter and his next short sniff is followed by a cry of victory. He bangs open a cabinet and fishes down a pair of cups. “I call the blue one.” He tells Clara with grave intensity. Clara frowns as she looks at the cups. Neither of which are blue. 

“Right.” She studies the cups, thinking that perhaps there is a spot of blue somewhere on one of them. There isn’t. “What blue one?” 

The Doctor has shuffled down to the stove to put the kettle on, he turns back to her and Clara finds herself wondering if he normally frowns this much. 

“Isn’t there a blue one?” his eyebrows are pinched together again. Clara shakes her head. He doesn’t move. “Clara?” 

“Hm?” 

“Is there a blue one?” 

Clara feels a cold wash over her. The Doctor is standing incredibly still beside the stove, his head tipped in her direction, waiting. Waiting for an answer she already gave. She’s certain he’d been looking. She’s certain he’d been looking at her the whole time she’d been here. But had he? Had his eyes ever really met her own? Was it possible… 

“No.” The word felt forced out of her. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the Doctor’s face, from those dark eyes. “There isn’t a blue one.” They weren’t cloudy. Weren’t vacant. They danced from side to side, quick and lively, and never settling on anything. She inched closer, making as little sound as she could. The Doctor’s attention was on the kettle, which was beginning to hiss and spit. His head never once turned in her direction, even as she stopped close enough to blow a breath across his neck. “Doctor.” He jumped, whipped around, took a half step back. His eyes hovered on the crown of her head. “Are you...blind?” 

He snorted and rolled his eyes and Clara felt silly. Of course he wasn’t. Of course not. He was shy, or something… Clara was being ridiculous. There was no way he was-

“Well I’m not  _ deaf. _ ” He turned back to the stove, and his look of derision glanced off her left shoulder. “Honestly, you’re just figuring this out now?” 

Clara’s mouth was hanging open and she was struck by the sudden relief that he couldn’t see it. Because he was blind. She smacked him in the shoulder, ears ringing with his startled yelp. 

“What was that for?” He complained and Clara felt guilty, but also… not quite angry. Foolish maybe. Something hot and sticky that made her want to cover her ears. Something that came out like angry, even though she had no right to that. The kettle shrieked and Clara found her voice as the Doctor poured. 

“You’re blind and you didn’t think to mention?” 

“You’re short, you didn’t exactly include it in your introduction.” 

“That’s different.” 

“How?” 

Clara’s mouth didn’t flap because she kept it firmly closed but it was a near thing and the silence that followed wasn’t exactly easy. The Doctor started to smirk as she kept quiet and Clara wanted to shout at him, she just wasn’t sure what to say. 

“I’m not a danger. To myself.” It felt rude, but the Doctor merely shrugged. 

“Neither am I. I’ve been like this a long time Clara. I’ve gotten used to it.” 

Clara worried her teeth into her fist as she looked at him, every line of his body relaxed, not bothered by the invisible stranger in his space. Clara wasn’t sure how he did that because it would have driven her mad. He offered a steaming cup in her direction and she took it gently. His fingers reached out as their hands brushed and settled at her wrist as he leaned his face in close, barely stopping before the brush of skin. 

“Don’t worry about it Clara.” He told her kindly. “You’re not my carer. If it makes you uncomfortable you don’t even have to stick around.” 

Clara shifted her arm so that they could link hands as she pushed her chin out in a stubborn jut. She was sticking around. As far as she could tell it was about time someone did. 

**Author's Note:**

> *throws confetti* I don't know what I'm doing!  
> Hopefully this will develop into something with a plot... And hopefully you guys will enjoy it while it does? Eh? Let me know. Hopefully all the listed characters will show up or get a mention. We'll see.


End file.
